


Home By Any Other Name

by starsandgutters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I know I would, M/M, Or Is It?, because I mean it's these two after all, friendship!fic, you can put your slash goggles on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:24:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My first time attempting a 221B (for those who don't know, 221 words, the last one starting with B).<br/>I know it's ridiculously soppy, but I'd had a bad day and really needed something cosy. (Also, I dare you <i>not</i> to be soppy when you're listening to Explosions In The Sky. Best band for feels.) Yes, I know, the wordcount says 219, but it beats me why-- every other wordcounter I used says it's 221. </p><p>Courteously britpicked by the very lovely <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/winterlight/pseuds/winterlight">Alice</a>. Apparently, even in a couple hundred words, "there's always something". Also Elise, as ever giver of confidence boosts.</p><p>All remaining mistake and cloyingness: mine. I'm still trying to feel my way around such short bursts of expression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home By Any Other Name

To many people, _home_ is a safe, familiar routine.

Kicking off your shoes when you step through the door; tossing your coat on the sofa; putting the kettle on.

 

To some people, _home_ is a feeling.

Warmth. Comfort. Ease. 

 

To some others, _home_ is a person.

 

For thirty-four years of his life, Sherlock Holmes belonged to none of these categories.

 

The imposing mansion he grew up in, though most definitely a house, never was a home: merely a place he lived in when he wasn't busy not-fitting-in at school. He understood - vaguely, scientifically - that he was supposed to associate a feeling of belonging to it, but it seemed preposterous. What was there to relate to in that place? A clever, distant father whose escapades had broken his wife's heart. A beautiful, silent mother consumed with grief and regret for the musical career she'd left behind. An older brother who used to _understand_ , and who had suddenly become filled with condescension and closed doors. Sherlock Holmes, aged ten, did not much care for any of these things.

 

Afterwards, "home" was merely a convenience: an address to give out to people who might need him. No, not him: The Work. Only ever the Work for Sherlock Holmes. 

 

Until serial suicides. Until pink. Until "oh God, yes".

 

Until _home_ was a blogger.

 

 

 

 


End file.
